


The Reflections of Refections

by RavynneNevyrmore



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Past Relationship(s), Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-10
Updated: 2008-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-23 13:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2549612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavynneNevyrmore/pseuds/RavynneNevyrmore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking place between the fade-out of the end of FF7's grotto scene and the continuation of the crew's journey, Vincent spends some history-charged time in Lucrecia's company. Contains references to Dirge of Cerberus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reflections of Refections

**Author's Note:**

> **re·fec·tion** (rĭ-fěk'shən)
> 
> n.  
> 1\. Refreshment with food and drink.  
> 2\. A light meal or repast.

_Lucrecia...   Sephiroth is dead._

The words still hung uncomfortably in the air as the woman to whom they were spoken broke into quiet sobs.  It was then that Cloud realized his hand was still slightly raised as if he were about to speak, and lowered it to his side since it was clear there was nothing left to say.  Having acted as the appointed leader since he left Midgar with his companions, he had been taken by surprise when he was silenced by their group's least talkative member, and even more surprised by the blatant lie which had come out of the man's mouth following that.

It was this lie which left their other comrades fidgeting and shifting behind them, but they knew Vincent had had some relationship with this woman and surely had his reasons.  Like Cloud, they realized that this matter did not involve them, and, in some cases, was older than them.

If the tension was obvious, however, it went unnoticed by the broken woman.

"Cloud—"  Vincent's voice was quiet, and he stepped closer to the younger blond man to ensure that he had his attention and his comprehension.  "Take the others and go on.  I will meet up with you."  Ruby eyes flickered over crystal blue and caught them in a firm grasp which said there would be no debate over this and Cloud nodded his understanding.

Vincent nodded in turn and turned his gaze back to that which most obviously held his attention.

Cloud shuffled back toward the group and motioned for them to backtrack out of the grotto with him.  "Come on," he beckoned in a hushed tone.

Yuffie blinked in surprise.  "But isn't Vincent co—"

"Later."  He turned his eyes back to the tall, silent man as Barret and Cait Sith already made their way back into the sunlight and the glowing red hue tinted by Meteor in the atmosphere.  "This...doesn't concern us.  Let Vincent take care of this on his own."

Yuffie nodded slowly and followed Cloud's lead out of the cave.  With one last curious glance back at the long-haired gunman, Yuffie ducked out of the cave to (reluctantly) join her companions on the Highwind, and the two would-be lovers from decades past were left alone.

As deadened as his emotions had become, Vincent felt an uncomfortable sensation in the core of his chest when he watched the shaky rise and fall of her bony shoulders, each desperate sob tearing into him like the hungry claws of an unforgiving beast trying to claim his soul to the darkest pits of hell.  Slowly, tentatively, he inched closer to her as one might approach a wild animal, careful not to advance too quickly lest she leap onto the defensive again.  Whether she was too lost in the distress of hearing confirmation of her son's death to notice his third attempt to approach her or simply no longer cared, he successfully closed the gap between them to a few feet without her protest.

"Lucrecia..."  He spoke her name softly so as not to startle her, as he suspected that the former possibility was the cause of her apathy, and he did not want to bring further discomfort to the woman by sneaking upon her.

But her only response was a quick shake of her head.  "I just...  I'd always hoped...that...maybe...and, my dreams...oh, God, my baby!"  With that, she broke into a new bout of sobs that were magnified tenfold by the crystal walls, and since she'd acknowledged his proximity and hadn't protested yet, Vincent crouched down by her side and dared to place a comforting hand to her shoulder.

It was a strange feeling, to be touched by another after so many years of solitude, and with intentions of compassion at that.  This was why, to Vincent's surprise, she continued to acquiesce as he gently pulled her toward him and latched herself onto the folds of his shirt.

She, too, was somewhat surprised when her shaking fingertips and tearstained cheek came into contact with cold and unforgiving leather, but after that first recognition of the porous material that stuck to her wet skin she paid it no further heed.  They had both changed so much, but beyond the external she knew she was still in the company of a familiar soul.

_Vincent..._

Indeed.  Vincent Valentine.  Grimoire's son.  Oh, how _little_ she deserved this brief comfort, but even that relation to her former mentor only served to thicken the familiarity that washed over her in waves right now.   _Why have you come back for me?  Don't you remember what I did to you—what I did to your father?_   If any phenomenon had carried her thoughts from her mind to his, he showed no sign of it in the warm arms and beating heart that encircled her.

Beating?  No.  Pounding.   _Lucrecia._   Such was its fervor that he could feel his pulse in his throat and hear its deafening rhythm in his ears.  He had once thought that all human emotions he had once possessed had been swallowed whole by the eternity of thirty years' sleep and regret, but Vincent realized now that was never once the case as, instead, thirty years of emotions flooded over him and threatened to drown him in the never-ending sea that was his immortal love for this woman.  But death by any means would have been a blissful one for him at that moment, so long as his final memory was that of Lucrecia in his arms.   _Lucrecia.  His_ Lucrecia.  The only woman he had ever loved with such unbearable intensity and he was certain, given his age, the only one he ever would.  As his fiery eyes bore a feverish hole into the crystal floors of the grotto beyond the top of her head, Vincent was suddenly overcome with the humility of holding in his arms the one thing that was more important, more precious to him than the entire rest of the world or even life itself—the piece of his heart that had been so forever unattainable to him, and yet here she was.  Alive.  Here.  With him.  He _would_ have died for her, and, as he immediately reminded himself, had once before.  But it had been too late then—too late to save her life, he had thought, but now certainly too late to save her heart.   _Lucrecia.  Lucrecia._

_Lucrecia._

_Oh God, if I had only known you were alive, in a state like this..._

It was the absence of her sobs that finally drew Vincent's attention to her unconsciousness.  Her breathing was steady and her expression peaceful, having passed out among the ragged breaths of her anguish.  Ever so gently, Vincent shifted her slumbering position and ran his bare thumb so lightly over the tearstained cheek beneath her soaked lashes.  What gathered on his thumb was the closest thing to mud he had ever seen come from a person's tears, and it was evident that her cry was the first decent washing her face had seen in a while.  Her hair was disheveled and dull, her clothing dingy, and Vincent furrowed his brow as he wondered when she had last eaten a warm meal or slept in a proper bed.  Carefully, with her head nestled in the crook of his elbow, he shifted his free arm beneath her skinny knees and lifted her off the cold ground.

But despite his best efforts to be gentle, Lucrecia was so exhausted there was almost no risk of waking her.  She found herself in so deep a sleep that even Sephiroth did not come to her.  Could it be that all her recent dreams of him had simply been the visual manifestations of a mother's burdened psyche?  Now that she knew of his fate for certain, she supposed, she had no reason to mull over the possibilities in her sleep.  Death had no room for possibilities.

By the heavens, how she had wronged her poor son.  Why was fate so cruel as to cause the very things that are uncertain beyond sanity to us in the present to be so horridly crystal clear when they become the past?  Not one thing in her son's life and before it had she ever done that resulted in some good to him.  Why was it so plain to see all that she had done wrong now, when it was far, _far_ too late?

_Sephiroth, will you ever forgive me?  Do I even deserve that much?  I'd give my soul if it could ensure you to find peace in the Lifestream.  I'm so sorry..._

Fresh tears welled in her eyes as she awoke.  She was at first disoriented and then confused when she found herself in a small yet cozy furnished room that next registered in her head as the humble rented sleeping quarters of an inn, but then the memory of her unexpected reunion with Vincent Valentine flooded back to her.

"..Vincent?" she rasped into the still air, but upon hearing her voice crack as it left her dry lips she cleared her throat and broke into a cough.  Not that she expected he wouldn't have heard _that_ if he were indeed within hearing range, but nevertheless she called his name properly once again.  "Vincent?"

Nothing.

Lucrecia let out a sigh, gathered a handful of the thick blankets into her hands, and buried her face in them.  It suddenly occurred to her that she was uncomfortably warm and noted that, with the exception of her shoes, she was still fully clothed under the bedding.  This also explained why she was sweating lightly, which she concluded must have been the cause of her awakening despite the late hour.  A cursory glance beyond the curtained windows told her it was still sometime in the evening.  Evidently, her missing host had been too bashful to undress her, or perhaps did not want to infringe.  Lucrecia doubted she had feelings of modesty still in her, but was both taken and touched by the unexpected show of respect.  Regardless, she discovered a bath towel and robe laid out for her on a nearby armchair and took the opportunity of hot water that she might not have again for a while.

As she undressed, Lucrecia got the first good look at herself that she'd had in a while.  After hanging her dirty clothing on the back of the bathroom door, she turned to the sink to find herself greeted by a large mirror and nearly did not recognize the pitiful wraith who gazed back at her.  Her eyes were hollow and surrounded by dark circles, her skin was so pale it was translucent, her limbs so thin she could touch her thumb and smallest finger together and encircle her wrist.  Bones jutted out at her shoulders, collar, pelvis, and spine, and her hair was such a tangled nest she had to do the best job she could combing through it with her fingers before bothering to wet it.

Warm water was a welcome sensation to her neglected skin.  She had become accustomed to taking her showers in the waterfall, and that was clearly without the luxuries of the sweet smelling soap that she lathered on her skin or the shampoo that rinsed the oils from her hair.  Lucrecia didn't know how long she had been in there when the scent of warm food reached her from outside—teasingly, at first, and then unmistakably—but as soon as her nose confirmed that there was indeed food beyond that door she did not care.  Stepping out of the shower and into the terrycloth slippers that had been tucked into one of the pockets of the bathrobe, Lucrecia wrapped the robe around herself and made quick work of drying her hair.

It was a far different vision than the one he had left behind that Vincent was met with when the bathroom door opened.  He had known by the sound of the running water that she had been in there showering, but somehow he was still caught by surprise and a fierce blush when greeted by the sight of Lucrecia standing before him clad in a bath robe.  Their eyes met by chance, at first, and then suddenly both grown adults found themselves as awkward in the situation as children.

"I...thought you might be hungry."  Vincent gestured to the container on the table next to him, flickering his eyes over her form and then forcing them elsewhere.  "Chicken and rice.  They didn't have much downstairs...  Sorry."

"Oh, no, don't be," Lucrecia protested as she tried to restrain herself from ungracefully hurdling the corner of the bed and tackling the table in her bid for that ever so precious, wonderfully aromatic plastic box sitting atop it.  She did, however, make her way into the chair opposite Vincent as quickly as possible without such acrobatics and eagerly removed the lid.  The savory steam that filled her nostrils was almost unbearable and her stomach rumbled in appreciation of the delicious scents caught by her nose.  "Not at all...  Thank you...very much.  I'm so famished I could just about eat _you_."  Lucrecia smiled wanly and eagerly popped a piece of chicken into her mouth, but then suddenly became smacked in the face with the belated realization of the double entendre treacherously laden in her attempt to lighten the situation and nearly choked on the poultry.

Vincent couldn't have missed a beat, his eyes fixated on her as firmly as they were.  He began to rise from his seat at once, unsure if she needed any help, but Lucrecia lifted her hand, shook her head, and merely took a rather large sip of the drink that Vincent had brought her to accompany the food.  "Careful," he cautioned softly as he eased back into his seat.  "Don't eat too fast."

God, how long had it been since they had last sat like this?  Was it -that- day?  Had an eternity truly passed since then, or was it simply yesterday?  And at the same time, had it even occurred in the same lifetime, or was their carefree picnic lunch simply an errant memory of some past life?  Surely they could not have been the same innocent two youths who had once upon a time shared sandwiches and flirtatious conversation on a grassy knoll beneath an oak tree on a warm spring day outside Nibelheim.

And yet, they were those very same two individuals, and everything else that had transpired between them had occurred in this lifetime as well.  All of the pain, all of the heartache, all of the yearning to make amends, all of the isolation, all of the sacrifice, all of the _history_ —it was theirs as well, and Vincent suddenly felt as though it hung in the air like a tangible third entity.  Could she, too, feel it as thickly as he?  How could they be sitting here now?  How could he be studying each precious millimeter of her beautiful face as though he ran some risk of ever forgetting it, when the last words she had spoken to him before that afternoon still stung in his heart even now?

_It's my concern and has nothing to do with you!_

He had understood the thinly veiled implication in her biting statement as well then as he understood it to this day.  This child is not your concern.  My pregnancy has nothing to do with you.  She had not stated it so plainly then, in Hojo's presence, but it had been stated plainly enough for Vincent for the mere words to have torn his mortal chest open, ripped his heart from the gaping cavity, and thrown the precious organ onto the hardwood floor of the Shinra Manor where it would continue to seep Vincent's blood into its floorboards for thirty and a half years.

You're not the father of my child, so stop acting like one.

He wondered briefly if it was Sephiroth's supposed death which had allowed this meal to become a possibility, or if that was just convenient coincidence.  Did she, in some way, in some part of her, feel that since the child she had conceived in someone else's arms was now gone, that it was okay to accept comfort, shelter, and food from Vincent?  Or was she simply too overcome by grief to turn away the sympathy, too hungry to turn away the food?

_Oh Lucrecia, if you ever knew...his true fate...you would only wish he had died five years ago. But I will do whatever I can to spare you from that pain, and I will do what I can to save him in your stead. I may not be his father, but as a part of your heart he is a part of mine._

_I pray you were telling the truth back then, or I am on the verge of committing an even bigger sin than ever before..._

With the ravenous demands of her mistreated stomach staved away to a mere whimper and what was mostly a deprived pallet's appreciation for warm, savory food, Lucrecia couldn't help but to feel the full weight of the situation she now found herself in, and it occurred to her that once her stomach was properly fed and her mind began functioning clearly again, she just wasn't sure what to do next.   Vincent was alive, which in itself carried with it some amazing implications, but for all intents and purposes she was captured.   What was she to say when she finished eating?   Thank you for the meal, Vincent—I'll see you in another thirty years?   She began to chew more slowly as this discomfort settled upon her.   Suddenly the weight of his gentle, concerned gaze seemed heavier than the upper plate of Midgar.   She could feel him _staring_ at her.

Vincent, too, must have sensed the shift in her disposition, for he suddenly inhaled and looked away as though he had just remembered himself.   He couldn't have helped but to stare, given all the circumstances, but circumstance didn't make it polite.   Did manners make it wrong, though?   He wanted to paint a picture of her image in his mind to keep with him forever so that when he awoke from this dream his mind's eye would have a brand new, vivid record of her.   He wanted to drink her in so that he would never be without her again.   He wanted to assure himself that _this was real_ —that Lucrecia was truly alive, that...

That he still had a reason to go on, even after his current tasks were seen to.

All idle pondering of the tangibility of their past in the air were now moot.   It was there, and it was just as real and solid as either of them was.   Vincent wanted to say something—anything to open a window from his heart to hers and breech the silence that kept them so much farther apart then the wooden table between them, but there was nothing and yet there was too much.   How did one express the infinity of the human soul in words?   He had never been good with words...

Whether full or unable to bear the uncomfortable silence any longer, Lucrecia suddenly stood and began to carry the empty containers toward the garbage receptacle on the far side of the room.   Upon realizing this, Vincent quickly rose and attempted to take the discarded items from her.

"I can do that," he insisted.

"No, it's all right.   I—"

Their hands brushed against each other and as if an electric shock had been jolted through each of them it silenced and rooted both to their spots.  He was looking at her again, and this time she at him too, but it was as if she had not noticed him there before—or, rather, something about him.  Those eyes...   They were so familiar and yet so foreign to her.   She recalled when they had been filled with kindness, chestnut warmth and a boyish charm.   He had been so much more innocent then, so much less burdened when she had first met him.

_What have I done to you...?_

Now she saw pain in the depths of blood red pools.   They no longer smiled at her—they screamed to her, implored understanding, howled in agony, and whispered of loneliness.   The changes in him went far beyond the telltale signs of Chaos's presence within him.

_Did I make an even bigger mistake in bringing you back?_

_No, no!   I won't ever allow myself to think that!!   I've made so many mistakes, but not...not that one._

Lucrecia could feel her face contort against her will as fresh tears stung her sinuses.   She willingly relinquished the empty food container to Vincent and brought her hands to her face as she slowly shook her head.   Her lips curled upward into a grimace that was almost a smile in spite of herself, but her eyes expressed only deep sorrow.

"Oh, god, Vincent..." the broken woman murmured through her shaking fingers.   "There's no way to ever turn it all back, you know..."

Though unaware of what had caused this sudden lack of composure, her words stung the center of his heart.  Vincent furrowed his brow and set the rice container down on the kitchenette counter behind him, then moved to gently embrace her, but Lucrecia shied away and turned her back to him.  Thus, he let her be, his hand only hanging dumbly in the air for a moment before falling pathetically to his side.

If only he could get through to her.   They had both faced so much in their pasts, but their pasts were one and the same.   Could they not face it together?   Could they not grieve their losses together, console one another, even if only as friends, the one like soul in the infinite darkness of the universe?   It hadn't occurred to him until now how strongly Vincent himself had desired such a connection. While he shut himself away in Shinra Manor, denying the outside world, had he been heinous enough to truly want understanding all along?

_You don't deserve it._

_No, but she does._

_Lucrecia, please let me in.   Please..._

_You're a monster.  Just let her go._

_I can't do that.  Not again._

_I can bury the monsters..._

_You don't deserve the same fate as me..._

But Vincent could only watch the back of her frail shoulders as each quiet sob shook her small frame.   It was madness, to watch her writhe like that, and it was madness, Vincent was sure, and not sense that reached out, gripped those frail shoulders, and whirled that small frame to face him so quickly that Lucrecia's startled gasp was the only reaction time allowed before she was staring again into the burning embers of those ruby red eyes.

They were the same eyes in which she had found a quiet pain just moments ago, but now the passion of some unknown fire raged in their depths.   They were the eyes that had charmed her beyond common sense as a young woman—the ones that had made her think that maybe, just maybe, it was okay for her to feel this way when she looked into them.   Stirrings Lucrecia had not felt in years awoke within her, and try as she might she was helpless to look anywhere except into those blazing red eyes.   Vincent...   Sweet, caring Vincent was in there—somewhere—she _knew_ it!   His soul may have been wounded, but not dead.   Never dead.   Vincent wasn't just _alive—Vincent_ was alive.

"I know you feel alone," he said, his deep, rough voice almost a whisper that caressed her like coarse silk and made the small hairs on her skin stand on end.   "I know you want to shut away the world and hide because no one will ever understand, but _I do_.  I _know_ you; I know—this.  All of this."   The warmth of his right hand on one shoulder fairly seared through her robe and burned her flesh beneath while the icy touch of his left on the other nearly caused her to shiver and pull away had she not been held captive by those unnatural eyes.   "Lucrecia," he breathed, "when will you ever let me in?"

Lucrecia was so taken by the question her heart fluttered, and despite its prompt for an answer she was rendered speechless.   For a moment it seemed as though he was going to say something else, or perhaps he struggled to find the words he wished to speak, but his only conclusion was to finally release his physical and mental grasp on her and stammer an apology.   "I...I'm sorry."   With a heavy sigh, Vincent took a step back and rested his elbows on the counter behind him, head lowered, posture slouched.  Defeated.   _So much for burying the monsters._

Lucrecia was shaking.   She didn't know if she wanted to flee from this situation or stay and make it right, so she found herself rendered helpless to do anything but stand there with nowhere else to go, hugging herself so tightly she almost bruised her own arms.    _Vincent, Vincent!   All you've ever done is cared about me, and you've become a victim to everything I've ever done wrong!_    Hot tears burned her eyes but Lucrecia did nothing to stop them.   She couldn't.   She didn't know _what_ to do, but she was pretty darned sure it was right to cry.    _This never should have been brought upon you!   I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..._

_I'm so, so sorry!_

_I've ruined your life so much already...   I don't know if it's better to push you away and let you repair the damage I've done on your own or to help you mend it and risk hurting you again._

_I can't risk hurting you again!   But you...you look so sad._

_And it's all my fault._

_Oh, damn it all to hell._

At this moment, she didn't care if it was wrong.   She had to do something— _anything_ —but stand there a moment longer.   Lucrecia felt her head sway from side to side before she realized she was shaking it, and she shook it even more fervently.   At what?   She didn't even know.   The broken scientist tore her arms away from herself and reached out to cradle his dejected head in her hands as if driven by some other force.   He looked at her—shocked, hurt, perhaps even frightened, but most of it melted away into simple shock.

_Oh Vincent..._

He hadn't the time to lift his right hand and gently place it atop hers before she pulled herself to his parted lips and kissed him with more passion shooting through her than she had ever felt in her entire life.

Had the roof of the building crashed in instead, Vincent would have been less surprised and better equipped to deal with the situation than the one in which he found himself now.  He felt as though someone had shot his brain full of novocaine, such was its numbness and use to him at this moment, and it was at least three seconds before it even registered that he was being kissed, though he soon noted that other parts of his body had recognized and processed this information more quickly than his brain had.  His arms rose to encircle her of their own volition, but it was another three seconds before she was pushing herself away and sputtering apologies.

"I'm sorry!" she insisted, her face turned downward so that he could only see the flush on the tops of her cheeks and the embarrassed flutter of her wet eyelashes.  "I'm sorry—I don't know what I was thinking—I—"

Why was she apologizing?  Vincent was even more confused by that than he had been by her sudden action in the first place.  Was she sorry for granting him the greatest seven seconds of the calendar's current era or for ending it so soon?  Did he miss something else?  All that he could deduce is that he must have just been hit soundly in the head with a brick.  Yes, a brick, that must have been it.

Apparently the logical solution to being hit in the head with a brick was to pull her close to him again and press his lips against hers so she would stop apologizing.

It wasn't that he ever—had ever—wanted for anything but the soft warmth of her mouth against his, or that it evaded him that she was reciprocating despite her muffled protest, but his senses soon returned to him and Vincent found himself the one pulling her delicate frame away from him this time and fearfully seeking her eyes for anything but the need to run from him again.  "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Perhaps she was too dazed to run, but for a moment her expression was indeterminable to Vincent.  Then the shame returned.  Lucrecia pulled his hands off her biceps and threw them away from her as if they were diseased, which Vincent couldn't pretend did not hurt, but he was ill disposed to do anything but watch her turn away and hug herself.

A violent twitch of her shoulder alerted Vincent to the fact that she was shivering—a fact which she evidently did not deign to acknowledge with anything more than a feeble cough.  He was rather uncomfortably warm himself, but also realized that he had several layers of clothing retaining a slightly elevated body temperature, and that a simple layer of terrycloth wasn't thermally ideal for damp skin in a drafty hotel room.

"Lucrecia, you're freezing," he murmured as he grabbed the blanket off the bed and draped it over her shoulders.  Oddly enough, this was news to her, but once she found herself with the comfort of another thick layer of cotton and chocobo down, she also found herself unable to deny his statement.  With more reflex than thought, Vincent rubbed the tops of her arms after placing the blanket atop them, but quickly realized that even the platonic gesture might have infringed and drew his hands away.  There was nothing he would have wanted more than to pull her body against his again, shed all layers and bury the both of them beneath that blanket, tumble into bed with her, sweating and entangled, press himself deep within her, and make love until Meteor no longer existed.  He wanted to remember every inch of her skin again, remember what her breath felt like against his ear and the quiet sounds she made, her hands against his bare skin, the gentle curve of her hips, her racing heart, pleasured gasps, sighs, moans, remember what it sounded like when she said his name with no fear in her voice...  Instead, he backed away and took solace in the fact that, of course, he always _would_ remember, if only that.

For her part, she only looked down at the floor around his feet and clasped the blanket about her shoulders with her own hands.  "I—  Thank you—I—"  She gestured feebly with one of her hands but the only thing that managed to come forth were more tears.  "There's just—  There's too much—we—I—"  Lucrecia swallowed hard and grasped the blanket again as though it would prevent her from getting too choked up to continue.

Vincent shook his head and averted his eyes to the foot of the bed.  "It's...all right.  You don't have to explain."

Something in his peripheral vision caught his attention, sitting atop the kitchenette counter.  Two plastic containers smugly asserted their existence there, one containing some leftover rice and the other containing the remnants of some chicken.  Wryly, Vincent picked up the two items and placed them in the empty wastebasket.

After another moment of deliberation, Vincent told the figure behind him, "I know you won't feel comfortable with me here, but I want you to have a place to stay, so..."  He reached into his pocket and withdrew all the gil he had on him.  Lucrecia blinked as he placed the coins on the counter, the last to settle noisily spinning along its rim before resting upon one face.  The relief of a chocobo smiled unwittingly up at her from its golden surface.

"I wish you would accept more from me."

His profile turned away from her and started for the door.

He didn't expect to be stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Please don't go."  Now it was Vincent's turn to blink when he found two glimmering brown eyes imploring his acquiescence, tears freely but quietly overflowing from the lids that held them.  "Will...  Will you stay for a while?  Just for tonight...  Please?"

"Of—of course."  He was in love with a lunatic.  He could see no other explanation now.

Still, the relieved smile that spread across her face warmed his heart and he had no choice but to obey as she led him back to the bed and lay down there, first pulling the blankets tightly around her and then his arms.  It was a small comfort to lay there together in silence, but one they would both take, for now.

To Vincent, the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing was the sweetest lullaby, kept in perfect synchronization with the metronome of his own heartbeat.  If this was all he ever received, ever kept, he vowed, it would be enough.  She could never truly leave him.

He tightened his grip around her ever so slightly.

He never saw her breathing again.


End file.
